A Friendly Wager
by PetiteCafe
Summary: Emma learns that it's wise to bet on Murphy's Law. Pure drabble, set roughly mid-season two. Rated M for a reason: lemony, lemony Captain Swan goodness.
1. Chapter 1

She contemplates the razor skeptically.

The water is boiling hot, flushing her skin and sending up clouds of steam that fill the tiny bathroom. She's amazed that the building's water heater has kept up this long, but loves that she's had enough time for a thorough scrub.

More than thorough…

She's exfoliated. She's washed and conditioned her hair. She's scrubbed every inch with a puff loaded full of "Pomegranate Berry" body wash, and now smells like a fruit salad.

She's scrubbed her face and can feel the velvety texture of her own skin even under the water. And now she's looking at her razor.

It's ridiculous, really. Why is she going to this trouble?

* * *

_She steadies the stick carefully, lining up the shot. It's not helping that he's directly in her line of sight, leaning against the wall with a glass in hand. She could use a little less distraction, as if the dive bar and the blaring music weren't enough..._

_She glares up at him. "Will you move?"_

_He smiles. He's like a jungle cat – every damn move is sinuous, lithe, graceful. Even a smile._

"_You have a clear shot, love," he points out. He sips from the glass, and deliberately – slowly – _damn_ – licks a stray bead of liquor off his own bottom lip. _

_She's really hoping that the look on her face isn't as helpless as she's afraid it is._

_It probably was. His smile changes to triumph, and he saunters out of her direct line of sight. She sighs – __mostly__ internally – and bends back over the table._

_No good. The shot is off and she knows it, the two ball careening off the table's bank with no control, and rolling to a stop just shy of the corner pocket. _

_She had been concentrating, and almost jumps through the ceiling at the purr in her ear. "Darling, you'd better focus if you're hoping to win this…"_

_If she turns her head an inch, she'll be kissing him. The idea is tempting._

_Instead, she steps forward, her hips coming within an inch of the pool table. "Don't count your chickens, Hook." _

_He chuckles, throaty and low. She feels a hand touch her neck, pulling her hair back, and then smoothing down over her shoulder. He steps forward and she feels his body directly behind her, effectively pinning her against the table. His cheek presses against hers, rough stubble scratching._

_Her body performs an executive override, and she's leaning back against him, wanting more than this simple, relatively-acceptable public display. His closeness is clouding her thoughts, she can't breathe – and she wants more._

"_I want you, Swan," he murmurs in her ear. It's indecent, how his voice vibrates straight into her pants. She wonders if anyone's ever come from verbal stimulation alone._

_She can feel the proof of his words against her backside. Shouldn't that hurt, with such tight pants?_

"_I am going to win this wager," he continues, "and you will owe me an evening…and we both know how that will end, Swan."_

_A dim corner of her mind is wondering if anyone is watching the town sheriff being publicly seduced by a pirate. The rest of her is not caring._

"_You're awfully sure of yourself," she murmurs._

"_I don't see you calling for help, love….or pushing me away." _

"_Maybe I don't want to make a scene."_

"_Maybe you know that I'm right, and that you want me as much as I want you…" His hand strokes her neck. "You're already burning for me, love. If you weren't so stubborn, you'd let me stoke that fire this very night…but…"_

_Without another word, he steps away from her and lifts his cue, moving around the table. She actually loses her balance at the absence of his body, but recovers quickly, and invents several new profanities in her head._

_He sights along the cue. She's been surprised at how good he is – he's ahead of her by three balls at the moment – and how gracefully he balances the stick on the polished steel of his hook. He discarded his heavy coat at the start of the game, and although she's sure he's noticed, she's trying not to be too obvious about how much she's enjoying the view of leather pants hugging his thighs and…well. The view from the rear isn't half bad either._

_It makes sense that he's in shape. Right? _

_The rest of the game could charitably be described as a slaughter. He's merciless, and sinks shot after shot, despite draining almost as many glasses as sunken balls. _

_He lines up for the eight. "Corner pocket. If I were you, love, I'd clear your schedule tomorrow evening. And the next morning. And perhaps into the afternoon."_

_She's holding her breath, hoping he'll scratch or miss – but no such luck. His shot is clear, and the eight sails smooth as a kiss into the corner pocket. The cue ball might as well be on the other end of the table for all the chance that he'll scratch._

_She's lost. It seems like a good time to drain her own glass._

* * *

She yanks herself out of the memory, of how she got into this stupid mess in the first place. She's still got the razor in her hand.

"This isn't a date," she firmly tells it. "I lost a bet. It's just dinner. It's not a date."

The razor apparently has the voice of her mother, which chimes in her head. _Then why are you thinking about shaving your legs?_

"It makes sense. I might wear a dress…"

_Sure, I wear dresses all the time on not-dates. In the fall. When it's forty degrees out. And raining._

"Shut up," she mumbles.

Perhaps the best way to deal with this is Murphy's Law. If she does not shave her legs, something is going to happen. _You want it to._ She can ensure her own safety and that of her already-wobbly defenses by shaving and wearing a dress and pulling out her laciest black underwear, and doing absolutely everything else to primp herself.

_As if it were really a date. As if I were hoping that dinner would lead to dessert, and then a nightcap, and then…_

She reaches for her shaving lotion.

* * *

He'd caught her at a vulnerable moment. That was really the problem.

The Rabbit Hole wasn't exactly a traditional stomping ground for her, but it had seemed like the right place to go, given her mood. Her parents and Henry were off camping in the woods – something about spending alone time with their grandchild.

To be honest, she hadn't minded. Ever since coming to Storybrooke and becoming swept up in the life of the town…not to mention adjusting to having a son, and parents, and a _family_…her time to herself had been limited at best. The idea of the entire weekend stretching before her all to herself had seemed marvelous at the time.

Which was exactly why she was alone at the Rabbit Hole at one in the morning.

"Another one, Sheriff?"

She spun her fingers at the bartender, the universal signal for _Keep it coming, buddy._ A glass plunked down in front of her seconds later, and she grasped it gratefully.

A second _plunk _ echoed the first, and she turned, her features drawing into a scowl at the sight of black leather, dark stubble, and sea-blue eyes. _Great._

Hook slid onto the stool beside her, his fingers curving around the tumbler he'd already set down. "Fancy seeing you here, lass. Although I think I'd recall if you normally graced this establishment…?"

"What do you want, Hook?" She sipped the beer.

"You're alone. I am as well. It seemed to me that we should remedy that mutual condition."

"Maybe I want to be alone."

"Maybe I don't."

"So go find someone else to bother." She gestured with her glass. "In case you didn't notice, there are plenty of people here."

"And none of them are worth my time." He smiled. "Emma, you know I will not stop. You know I am not a man to give up on something I want. Why continue to deny me? Is there something you're afraid of?"

"Hardly. I don't think many people would call me crazy for choosing not to spend time with a pirate."

"You never know until you try. Perhaps a friendly wager?"

"You've got to be kidding."

He inclined his head towards the pool table in the corner, which was – surprisingly – vacant. "Do you know the game?"

"What if I do?"

"Then I propose a wager. If you best me, I'll cease pursuing you. I shall leave you alone for as long as you wish it."

She tried to ignore the way the bottom of her stomach dropped at the thought of him "leaving her alone." "And what happens if you win?"

"Hmmm…" His teeth were shockingly white against the scruff of beard. "Dinner. Aboard my ship. Tomorrow night."

* * *

She walks to the harbor. The choice of transport was not easy – everyone knows her distinctive Bug, and the sheriff's cruiser is not exactly inconspicuous either. She's lucky that the earlier rain has stopped – at least for awhile.

The Jolly Roger is at anchor by the longest of the docks, the huge ship dwarfing the smaller sailing boats nearby. She has an unhindered view of the deck, which appears to be empty.

_Oh god. I hope we're eating inside. As opposed to outside where anyone walking by would see…_

She walks up the steps, the heels of her boots clicking. The windows of the captain's cabin are giving off a faint light, and she heads in that direction, raising a hand to knock on the door.

He opens it first. She steps back, startled, but is arrested by the sight of him.

He's not the kind of man who will ever look clean-shaven, but his stubble is at least trimmed. The clothes have changed too – he's in a white shirt, for once, and a red vest that shimmers in the candlelight coming from the cabin behind him.

He looks fantastic.

She's aware, all of a sudden, that her mouth is hanging open, and closes it with a swallow. "Hi."

"Good evening, love," he purrs. "Won't you come in?"


	2. Chapter 2

He steps to the side to allow her entrance to his cabin. It's somewhat unnerving, entering his private space, which is doubtlessly why he's done it.

"If you don't mind, I'll leave the door ajar," he murmurs. "It tends to get warm in here, especially with the candles. But never fear, lass, we can close it if things get….loud."

She rolls her eyes at him, and he smiles. "But for now, perhaps you'll allow me to take your wrap?"

She's swathed in a black shawl, but before she can start taking it off, his hands are on her shoulders, easily unwrapping her. And now it's his turn to stare.

In the end, she had followed Murphy. Her form is sheathed in a little black dress that ends in a handkerchief hem just above her knees, leaving a small expanse of creamy leg before the tops of her black boots. Despite herself, and despite all her misgivings about being here and who she's with and what she wants – she feels sexy.

And his gaze is making her feel even sexier. She's stunned that her clothes haven't burst into flames.

He swallows, and turns, hanging her wrap on a hook by the door. When he turns back to her, the nuclear inferno in his eyes has cooled to roughly forest-fire level.

"You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

He's 300 years old, so this is somewhat of a statement, especially when his voice has dropped an octave and taken on a rough, gravelly quality. It should sound like a cliché; she should be rolling her eyes again and snapping back something witty. Instead, she lifts her head, looks at him, and smiles. "Thank you. You look good too."

He appears taken aback. "My pleasure, darling. Shall we?"

* * *

The food had been good – although midway through the meal he'd confessed that it had been a packed hamper from Granny's – and the conversation, unexpectedly, had been delightful. He had been making an obvious effort to actually _talk_ to her, as opposed to twisting everything into an innuendo. As a result, she'd nearly laughed herself sick at his stories from Neverland. They had worked their way through a full bottle of wine and most of another one – and somewhere in between the food, the wine, and the conversation, her guard has gone dangerously low.

She leans back in her chair after they've finished dessert, full and surprisingly happy and content. "Thank you. That was wonderful."

He smiles at her, rising and coming to her side of the table. She lets him take her hand and draw her to her feet – and is surprised, once again, when he does _not _pull her into his body, but turns and crosses to the liquor cabinet.

When he turns back, he is carefully balancing two snifters in his hand. "Come with me, darling."

* * *

He escorts her up to the helm, offering her one of the snifters. It turns out to be a fine brandy that slides down her throat like silk.

She leans against the railing, sipping the brandy, watching Hook beside her staring out at the water.

"Do you miss it?"

He understands her question. "Aye, I do. It's hard for me to remember a time when I wasn't at sea."

"What will you do when all this is over?"

He shrugged. "It depends. One thing I know, love, is that a good story never really ends – and this may never really be over. But if it were?"

She nods.

"Neverland is a lovely place, but I was weary of it even before the present events. I could return to the Enchanted Forest, I suppose. With my ship beneath me, the possibilities are endless."

She sips the brandy as his attention shifts. "And what of you, princess? Where will you go?"

"I wish I knew."

He rolls the glass in his hand, watching the liquid shift. "I suppose it's difficult for you. You're of both worlds. Or neither, depending on how you look at it."

Her silence is answer, and she drains the last of her brandy, as does he. "Emma."

His hand rests on hers on the railing. _Where did he put the glass?_ She doesn't pull away; his skin is warm, and she turns her hand up, entwining her fingers with his.

His surprise is evident, and his next motion – of stepping nearer, and his hooked arm going around her waist – is almost tentative. This is new; him being unsure. Him being anything but cocky and entirely in control, really.

She still doesn't pull away. The alcohol – and she's had a fair bit – is coursing through her veins, but she knows what she's doing. _Will it kill me to enjoy myself? To enjoy _him?

His face is inches away. "If you want me to stop, love," he whispers, "now would be the time to tell me."

She shakes her head.

The first one is tender. His lips are soft, softer than she'd imagined anything could be, and he's so gentle that her knees almost buckle right then. His arm on her back, hook carefully turned out to keep the point from catching, pulls her into him. Her arms drift around his neck as her body meets his.

The tenderness has caught her off guard, so it's almost a relief when abruptly things change. His lips harden, become much more demanding, and his arms feel like steel bands around her. His tongue demands entrance to her mouth, which she willingly gives; her body bows against him and she digs her fingers into her hair, thinking she'll kill him if he stops kissing her now.

He tastes like brandy and wine and dark chocolate, but he's not letting her have everything – his tongue dips in and out of her mouth, now smoothing over her lip, now meeting hers briefly. He's clearly an expert.

His good hand presses her hips against him, making sure she knows what she's doing to him. As their mouths part, she catches her breath and looks at him, dazed. _I waited how long for that? I'm an idiot._

His lips are reddened, and his eyes have brightened to a blue that's almost hard to look at. "Swan, you had best leave now."

"W-what?"

He hasn't let go of her, and he's looking down into her eyes so that she doesn't mistake his meaning. "If you don't go now, you are staying the night. You will not be sleeping. When you leave this ship tomorrow, you will have difficulty walking. Every inch of you will smell of me. I will do everything to you that I can possibly think of - and believe me, love, I have an excellent imagination. So it's really up to you, because I've already made up my mind."

She gulps. She's not sure any man has ever made a speech to her quite like that. She'd remember.

"You had also best know," he continues, "that once I've had you for a night, I won't be content. You had best be prepared to spend more of your nights here, until we've both had enough of each other – and darling, don't mistake me, I expect for that to take quite a long time."

Emma gulps again. He's not asking her to sign up for just one night, he's asking for more. What, exactly? She doesn't know, and she's not sure he knows either, but she agrees with him that one night isn't going to get him out of her system. That only works in books, and they're shitty books.

It's been way too long since someone kept her up all night.

She squares her shoulders and pulls his head back down.


	3. Chapter 3

His cabin door bangs open, which is only fair, since he's kicking it. He's carrying her in his arms, and once they're in, he slams it behind them and drops a bar across it.

"I'm not taking any chances," he informs her grimly. She smiles at him. Now that she's here and she's made a choice, it's like a hundred pounds have been lifted from her shoulders.

Hook circles the cabin, selectively blowing out some of the candles and adding oil to the lanterns on the walls. The light level dims slightly, but not significantly, and she's glad.

She wants to see him – all of him.

With his preparations done, he comes back to her. For all his experience and self-assurance, he is almost nervous, and the look he gives her borders on shy.

"Are you sure, Emma?"

She stretches up on tiptoe, and breathes her answer into his ear. "I'm sure, Hook."

"Killian," he breathes back. "My name is Killian."

With that, he's on her.

This time, the kiss is hungrier and more demanding. His touch is more intimate – his hand palms her breast through the fabric of her dress, his thumb seeking and finding the nipple even through dress and bra. She's running her hands over him too, trying to learn the shape of him through his clothes.

As one, they decide the clothes have to go. She's unbuttoning his vest as he's unzipping her dress, apparently having learned a lot about modern clothes in a very short time, and she steps out of it as it pools at her feet.

"I'm ahead of you," she growls, and reaches for his shirt, but he catches her hand, making her stop.

"Let me look at you, Emma," he rasps. "Good gods."

She acquiesces and stands there, motionless in black lacy bra, black lacy panties, and tall black boots. It must make quite a picture, because he's circling her slowly, his eyes drinking her in like wine.

Finally she squirms. "Killian…"

He stops dead. "Say it again."

"What?"

"Emma. Say it again. Say my name again."

"Killian," she breathes, and this time when she reaches for his shirt he doesn't stop her.

"Killian," she murmurs, as she lifts his shirt over his head and he obligingly helps, lifting his arms free.

"Killian," she whispers, an inch from his lips.

He crushes her mouth with his own even as he crushes her to him, and she feels his skin against hers for the first time. His chest hair rough, his skin smooth – it's better than anything, and she's had sex before that wasn't as good as this foreplay.

He spins her, backing her up towards the bed, until the backs of her knees hit the bunk and she sits down, breaking their kiss. This was apparently his intention, as he kneels between her legs, and runs his hand reverently over the top of her thigh.

"So beautiful, Emma," he croons. "So lovely."

His hand slides down, and he unzips one boot, then another. She leans back on her hands to allow him to pull them off, sighing in delight as his hand runs back up her bare leg. She can't remember the last time she enjoyed a man touching her this much, and he's barely gotten started.

He stands, and his hand moves to the fastenings on his pants. She rises to help, but he stops her with a look. "Just watch me, darling. I just want you to see."

He props a foot on the bed to unbuckle his boot, and she can't stop herself from running a hand over his leather-clad leg. Both boots drop to the floor in short order, and she reclines back on her hands, watching as he unbuttons his pants and shoves them down.

_Oh lord._

He is gorgeous.

Entirely naked, he joins her on the bunk, and she swings her legs up to lie with him, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her choice is made, she's all in, and when he takes her mouth she kisses him back with equal fervor. Their tongues dance together as his hand wanders over her body, molding her closer to him so that as much skin touches as possible.

He lifts his mouth and begins delicately kissing down her neck, his tongue swooping over the skin as he moves down to her breasts. He follows the line of her bra, maddeningly, until she squeaks in impatience and lifts up to unclasp the thing herself, tossing it off the side of the bed.

Killian's sultry smile makes her feel as feminine as a lace parasol. He puts his hand on her chest and pushes her back into the pillows – and without further ado, applies his mouth to her breast.

She gasps. He's drawn a nipple into his mouth while his hand cups the other breast, sucking and kneading in tandem. Everything he's doing is going straight into her belly, pooling in a lake of desire that has her trembling. She twines her fingers into his dark hair, moaning, whimpering, as he switches his mouth to the other breast and his hand wanders down her stomach.

Killian rolls onto his side, freeing his hand. "Open for me, darling," he murmurs. "Let me touch you."

She's not about to deny him. Her legs fall open, and his fingers glide smoothly over her panties. His breath catches. "So hot, Emma…I can feel it, are you wet for me already?"

He finds out, as a moment later, he dips beneath the fabric and this time really stops breathing. The pads of his fingers glide through her folds and unerringly find what he's looking for – he stops, rubs in a delicate circle, and is rewarded by a whimper and her thighs clenching.

"Enough of this," he mutters. She's fantasized about this exact thing a dozen times, and he doesn't disappoint her – the hook comes out and rips through the fabric of her panties in about two seconds flat. He yanks the torn fabric out from around her and she giggles.

"You owe me some new underwear," she informs him.

"If you hadn't been so silly as to wear it in the first place…"

"I wasn't…"

Whatever she wasn't will have to be discussed at another time. His hand returns to her, finding the bud once again and rubbing it carefully. Her hips rock off the bunk towards him, and she whimpers.

"Please…Killian…"

"Hmmm? What is it, Emma? What is it you want?"

He teases her. A finger sinks into her, just a bit, then back out, and she actually cries out for the relief he's denying her. He gives in, pushing his finger in all the way, and twists his thumb to rub her at the same time.

It's been a long time, and she's already close. She looks at him, gasping. "Killian – I'm going to come…."

His thumb moves faster, working her in a circle, and he slides another finger into her. He knows she's close. "Come for me, Emma," he croons. "I want to feel you come for me…"

A moment later, she does. He feels it rip through her, the spasms clenching her around his fingers, and he backs off, easing her gently through the orgasm while prolonging it as much as he can. Slowly, he stops moving his hand as she comes down, her body still shaking from the aftershocks.

She looks up at him, dazed. "I think I'm dead."

He chuckles, low in his throat, feeling like more of a man than possibly ever before. "Oh, believe me love, I have much more for you…"

His hand trails up her stomach, pausing at her breast, and he leans down for a brief kiss. She's still floored – she had expected forceful sex, hot and hard and fast, and that might still be in the cards tonight…but this, their first time is bordering on actual lovemaking. She had not foreseen this.

She's aware that she hasn't done much for him, and reaches out, trailing a hand down his chest as he lies beside her. He watches her from below hooded eyes, which darken about three shades as her hand closes around him. His hips buck, spilling his length into her hand, and she hears a _click_ as his teeth clench.

"Emma…" he hisses.

She slides her hand up and down, experimentally. The tip is already moist, and she swirls her thumb over the head, eliciting another hiss from him.

And that's as far as she gets. He grabs her wrist, pulling her hand away from him, and presses her back into the pillows. "Emma, love, I'll gladly let you have your way with me later, but now is not the best time…"

As if she didn't understand his meaning, his thigh nudges her legs apart and his body slides between them. He braces his arms on either side of her and looks down as his hips move into position, sucking in a breath at how hot and damp she still is, even after she's climaxed once.

He sees nothing but desire and need on her face, and that's enough reassurance for him. He pushes forward.

She pulls him to her, pushing herself towards him to try and get him in faster. He's going slow, ever so slow, and it's driving her crazy, feeling him sink into her an inch at a time. She wants all of him, _now, _and wraps her legs around his waist, her heels locking at his back.

He's not having any of it, and although he groans at the change in angle, he continues the slow penetration. She's tight around him; it's clearly been awhile for her, and he's trying to be careful. And she's not the only one that's a little out of practice.

He rocks his hips against her once he's fully in, making tiny movements to give her time to get used to him. She looks up at him and is stunned by what she sees in his face, flushed with desire and eyes burning bright, but still totally in control. He feels amazing inside of her and again she curses herself for idiocy. _I could have had this a dozen times by now if I wasn't so damn stupid. Two dozen._

"All right, love?" he asks. His control's about done and he's dying to move, and the relief he feels when she smiles at him, and nods, and flexes her legs around him, is almost an orgasm in itself.

He moves, thrusting into her at a pace that builds quickly; he'll savor this later, but now, this first time, he's reached his limit, and Emma certainly isn't complaining. She's moaning "Killian," in his ear as he slides in and out of her faster, and he feels her tighten around him; he's close now, so very close, and he quickly slips his hand between their bodies and finds her nub.

"Come with me, Emma," he demands, thrusting harder, rubbing her quickly. "I'm not going anywhere without you."

Her orgasm pushes him over the edge along with her, and he collapses, feeling her body shaking under him as he joins her. It's so good that he sees stars behind his closed eyes, and suspects he may have actually blacked out for a moment.

She holds him tightly as she comes down from the peak. He's still inside her and she's damned if she's letting him move. He's smiling against her neck, his sweaty forehead stuck to her skin. His hand lightly rests on her breast.

She can't not say it. He will be impossible to be around for the next week, but she can't not say it. "That…was…amazing."

He lifts his head and smiles at her, all masculine pride. "I'm very glad you enjoyed yourself, love. As I said, that's only a taste…"

She turns her head to look at the clock on his wall, and starts calculating. The result she comes up with – an estimate of how many times it's possible to have sex in one night, discounting sleep and allowing for occasional breaks – is somewhat alarming.

He knows exactly what she's thinking, and grins at her.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Thanks for making it this far! As it says on the package...this is a pure drabble fic, and I hope you've enjoyed! There's one more chapter to go after this one, coming soon! -PC**_

* * *

She lies replete on the bed, watching Killian's dark head where it's comfortably buried between her thighs. The room is infused with the smell of sex, which is hardly surprising considering that it's now past five o'clock in the morning and true to Killian's word, they have not slept.

He's licking her in slow, deliberate motions, occasionally pulling her nub between his lips and sucking on it like a lollipop. At this point, her arousal is building slowly, but that's fine with him, and he just enjoys being able to taste and touch her. He can taste his own saltiness on her.

She's showing marks of his passion by now – red love bites on the insides of her thighs, along with stubble abrasion across her breasts and belly. He's delighted at the thought and the sight, even though the marks will be under her clothes.

He's slowly hardening once again, still aroused at the thought of burying himself inside her. He looks up, kissing along Emma's thighs, and she smiles down at him. She's sore, there's no denying it; she feels the twinging ache, swollen and damp, between her legs every time she moves.

She wouldn't dream of asking him to stop.

"Turn over, darling," he whispers. She's trusting him completely by this point, and rolls onto her stomach. Gently, he guides her into position as he kneels, helping her straddle his lap on her knees. He ditched the hook a few hours ago, concerned that he'd get careless, and his handless arm wraps securely around her waist as his hand darts between their bodies.

He eases into her slowly; she's not the only one that's feeling well-used. He is almost over-sensitive; he picked this position for multiple reasons: the intimacy of so much skin touching, the angle allowing him to penetrate deeply without hard movement, and lastly – of course – the ability to touch her, have her wrapped in his arms as he pleases her.

She leans her head back against his shoulder, and he glories in the relaxed smile on her face. A sigh of pleasure escapes her lips as he settles inside her. He feels so unbelievably good; even after their long night together, she still wants him, still delights in the feeling of him in her. He was right, she hadn't signed up for just one night. There is no way just tonight is going to be enough for her.

She's distracted as he begins to move. Very slowly, and it's mainly him flexing those gorgeous stomach and groin muscles. The result is an amazing pulsing feeling, and her eyes flutter closed.

Killian, for his part, slides his hand over her breasts, stomach, and legs – anywhere he can touch her. With her legs spread over his lap, it would be an easy thing to reach down and bring her to climax, but he's in no hurry.

"Does it feel good, love?" he whispers. The shell of her ear is millimeters from his lips, and he nibbles softly.

"Yes…oh god, yes…"

He slows down even more, barely moving, just letting her feel him. "And now?"

She reaches back above her head, caressing his shoulders and drifting her fingers through his hair. She knows what he wants. "Killian, you feel so good like that…"

"You feel so good like this, Emma, so bloody good it hurts…"

"Why did we wait so long?" It's not the first time she's murmured the question tonight. He changes his movements, taking her with actual thrusts now, but still slow and deep. She moans.

He knows exactly why they waited so long, but calling her afraid would not lend itself to the mood. So he settles for a (truthful) dodge.

"We're making up for it now, love."

After that, it's his fingers delving between her legs, circling in time with his thrusts, and when the orgasm comes it's deliciously slow and makes her toes curl as it laps through her and she feels herself milking the length of him. Each time he's made her come it's felt different; he plays her body like a maestro with a Stradivarius.

Killian joins her halfway through, his arm tightening around her waist as he spends himself. The gravelly "Emma" that he groans in her ear adds at least two seconds to her climax.

When they're done, he falls to the side, holding onto her so that they curl together. Through the windows of the cabin, she sees the skies lightening. She feels him softening, and murmurs in protest as he slips out of her. A possessive hand runs down her arm.

"You look spent, love." His statement is accurate. She knows he'll never be the first to admit that for now, he's had enough, so she gives him the out.

"You think we could maybe sleep for a little while?"

Killian chuckles. "I think we might be able to manage that."

He pushes himself up on one elbow and slides off the end of the bed, striding naked around the cabin to turn the lamps down. Even with her body so completely sated, she can admire him, and does.

When he comes back, he pulls the covers up over them as he crawls in with her. Her eyelids are already growing heavy as he spoons himself against her, fitting into her curves perfectly. He's just warm enough to be cozy without sweltering.

She traces her fingers down the arm that's around her waist, laying her hand over his. Normally she'd be running away screaming at the thought of herself sleeping, hand in hand, with a man. But this – this is different, and anyway, running away is far too much effort right now.

"Sleep well, darling," her pirate murmurs. Emma is already there.


End file.
